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Copyright © Louis Schmier and Atwood Publishing.
Date: Mon, 17 Dec 2001 10:32:15 -0500 (EST)
Random Thought: That Loveable Cowardly Lion
The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra la..... I'm singing
this in the middle of December! I walked out this morning in shorts and a
cut shirt. Quickly tore off the shirt and threw it on the lawn after a few
steps down the driveway. A confused amarylis stood tall about to bloom. An
Azalea blossem peeked through a bush. Several Gallardia are flush from
the heat with red blooms. In December? It's supposed to be another 80
degree day today!! I've heard about the glowing warmth of the holiday
season, but Mother Nature is taking it literally! It doesn't feel like
we're on the right page of the calendar. It's downright immoral that
Rudolph's nose should be red from a sun burn on the beach!!
And yet, while "Jingle Bells" seems out of place, "Joy To The
World" does not. As I was walking through this unseasonal warm morning, I
was warmly thinking about an event of joyful magic in one class a week
ago. In fact, there has been lots of visible and vocal magic this
semester. It's sort of unusal. Maybe it's the lingering impact of 9/11.
Maybe it is just one of those semesters. Maybe it's just this particular
gathering of neat people. Maybe I just shouldn't ask. Anyway, about this
one piece of enchantment, it was the last day of the semester. It was the
time we do closure. We all brought in an object symbolizing what
experience each of us got out of the class and are taking with us. We
went around the room, each of us standing up, introducing ourselves for
the last time, and doing a show-and-tell about the object we brought in
and the experience we're taking out.
Then, it came Claire's turn. It's not her real name even
though she has given me permission to tell her story.
She stood up, smiling. This was once shy, grim-faced,
tight-lipped frightened Claire. She is a non-traditional student, mother,
wife, and ed-major. When I greeted her at the classroom door that first
day, it was as if she had a line from Dante branded on her spirit: "All
hope abandon ye who enter here." I watched her quickly sit in the far
back corner of the classroom. I noticed she didn't say anything to the
other two students to whom I had introduced her and with whom she sat. I
wormed my way though the chairs now scattered by chattering students, sat
down next to her, introduced myself once again, and softly asked,
"Nervous?"
She nodded her head. We small talked. I let her do all the
talking. As I left, I softly and quickly tapped her the hand saying with
a smile, "You'll be fine. Smile."
When we went on the day's "Treasure Hunt" to find and introduce
ourselves to ten people whom we didn't know in the class to discover ten
"unknown treasures," I made sure Clair and I shook hands. When I asked
her why she was a treasure, she couldn't answeer. Each day I'd be sure to
walk up to her, say hello, and engage in quick and friendly small talk.
With a serious joking around, I'd always ask her kindly to smile.
Hesitantly but bravely I saw her take one small arduous, step
after another: first standing up and telling us about the object she
brought in to symbolize what she wanted us to know about her, then singing
solo during class community building, then saying something during open
class tidbit discussions, then reading to us from the community's Dr.
Seuss Book, then singing again for the Bruce Springstein Project, then
donning a wig and costume and acting during the Broadway Project,
then.....
I'll just say that I read in her weekly journal and more than one
occasion when she came to me to talk heard of her struggle to overcome the
hidden blows that left long-lasting welts on her spirit. I read that she
knew if she was going to be an elementary teacher she would have to break
the mould, to become less shy, not as frightened, more studier and less
fragile, more assured, less sad. All semester I had seen a growing
twinkle slowly, hesitantly appear in her eyes. Ever more frequently, I
noticed the appearance of an unrequested, guarded smile curl her lips and
puker her cheeks. All semester I had seen a slow, struggling evolution of
attitude, a shift in self-definition, a redefining of normal, a growth in
self-confidence, a refocusing of faiths, beliefs, and hopes in and about
and for herself.
Now she was doing closure. Standing up, in her hands she held an
elongated box with a cellophane face. In the box was the cowardly lion
from the Wizard of Oz on which was sewn a big red heart. Claire explained
with a low, resolute tone how all her life she had been like the cowardly
lion.
"You people, this class, Dr. Schmier were all my Dorothys," her
voice cracked. She hesitated. A tear appeared. She recovered, "I don't
believe I am getting so emotional."
Water swelled in my eyes. She nervously went on. "I was like the
cowardly lion when I came in here....Like the cowardly lion, I found my
heart of courage here."
My hands tightened around the chair's desktop. Sudden everything
seemed to slow down and stretch out. She told us she is still scared,
still shy, still quiet, but far less then when she first entered the
class. She told us that next semester she is going to carry that lion
around with her in her backpack to every class so that when she falters it
will be there to remind her how much courage she has within her and that
she can rise to any challenge and overcome it.
"It'll still be a long walk. But, now on I'm my yellow brick
road," she exclaimed with such quiet and triumphant joy. "I was once a
scared and silent lamb. Now I know I can be a roaring lion."
For a lengthy moment, it was like the night before Christmas and
all through the classroom not a student stirred. Then, the class
exploded. Everyone wildly applauded and cheered. More than one or two
students rose from their seats.
Later I received a gift from Claire, a letter. I read it. I
e-mailed her. We had a long electronic conversation. She agreed to let me
share her letter. I do so as a reminder to us all, as I told an e-mail
friend, that there's more to each student then "student." There isn't one
of these people who isn't worth knowing. There isn't one of these people
who isn't important to someone. The class should be less "class" and
more important individuals. We should think less of teaching in a
classroom and more of the lives in the classroom. It should be less
homogenous and more a motely variety, an incredible mixture, as I often
say, a gathering of "sacred ones." It should be less a stolid olive drab
and more a lively coat of many colors. Here is her letter without the
confidential stuff:
"Dr. Schmier,
I know this is not required, but I just wanted to write and let
you know some things. I was sitting at my kitchen table Thursday night,
thinking about closure in your class earlier. I knew your class had an
affect on me, but I didn't realize how much of one until we got into the
class. As a new student who hasn't worked or been to school in a long
while until I stepped into your room, I never believed for a second at the
beginning that I would be able to complete it. I believe it was a real
blessing. Thanks to you, not only did I complete it, I overcame a lot of
my fears. I was so shy and scared of social situations, and your class
was just what I needed to open me up some. I will always remember the
first time and the many times after that when you could tell I was on the
verge of panic. I never understood how you knew. It was like you had
some radar, but I will always remember that you came over again and again
to ease my nerves. No else even cared in my family or at this school, but
you did. That is really special to me because you didn't have to. And
you didn't have to listen when I told you about......... I remember so
vividly when you asked how I was I being a model for my children. Boy,
did that hit home. It really went deep. Maybe that was when I began to
struggle to see what you were seeing."
"Your faith and belief and hope teaches by itself. I see that the
essence of education is in your teaching. I had caged my hope a long time
ago and had forgotten it even existed. It was painful to live that way;
it was even more painful to try not to live that way. You made me realize
that I had to breat the pattern for my sake and my children's. I felt
myself becoming alive as with your help as I came face to face with my
possibilities. I have learned to be proud of myself and to never
underestimate myself. I am so glad that I took this class when I did. I
believe that your words and teachings have motivated me and given me the
confidence to make it through school. I will take so much more with me
from this course than just a history lesson. You are a true inspiration
to me. I just wanted you to know that I am truly grateful for helping
this cowardly lion find her heart of courage that I now see, like the
lion, was always there. That loveable cowardly lion is going to be with me
all the time. THANK YOU!!!! I can't tell you how much I appreciate being
treated like a human being. Thank you for seeing my humanity."
"P.S. You will be seeing me. I'm going to take you up on that
offer to be there to listen whenever I have to talk with someone."
That phrase, "seeing my humanity," sums up what our educational
sight should be. I recently told an e-mail friend that if we miss the
sancity and dignity and humanity of each student, we've failed. If we try
to straightjacket each person in the classroom with a single, confining,
unhuman image or truth, we've failed. We should create an environment
where any student finds possibilities in his or her self, where he or she
becomes aware with those unique potentials. We should help soften the
moment for each student. We should see every moment as a chance to get
in, to catch it, and to change it. If we do whatever it takes to do that,
we have done whatever it took for them and for ourselves. Whatever Claire
now discovers is hers and as she stays the course she slowly will learn
just how wonderously new she and her surroundings have become, can become,
and will become.
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